


This isn't Home

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Age Swap, Alternate Universe - Age Changes, Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Dean as Lolita, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Father/Son Incest, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Sexual Violence, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 01:56:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2795531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since Mary died, it all went downhill. Temporarily, John finds another niche to exist for them, far beyond hunting and demons - they rent a house in the peaceful suburbs of New York. The calmness of the neighborhood never reaches the boys; not really. They can never run from the one monster they fear the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story deals with child abuse from early age on and focuses on the traumatic/psychological consequences the boys suffer from. I absolutely distance myself from this personally; it is nowhere near okay, romanticisable or sexually attractive to do any of the things in the story to a child/minor/non-consensual person. This is a fiction based on completely fictional characters and is written with the intention to map out and examine the topic.
> 
> Reader discretion is advised - if you have problems with or are triggered by any of the topics/warnings, please don’t read this.

It's a nice neighborhood. Friendly people. Many families. Quiet. Peaceful. Just how he likes it.

When he looks up from his laptop there is green surrounding him. It was a good choice to paint the walls. Jimmy writes more words in two days than a week's worth in his last apartment. This house has good energy. Oh, and the garden! Once the rain stops, he should grab a chair and sit outside for a change. Maybe with a cup of coffee. Yes. That'd be nice.

When he looks up from his laptop he can see across the street. Some rooms are lit in his neighbors' house. In the one on the second floor exactly in his line of view, a boy sits in the window and stares outside, down the deserted street. He looks terribly bored on the first glance but something leaves Jimmy's eyes stuck on him, the way his sunkissed skin and hair gleam in the dim and warm light around him. On a second look, he looks terribly sad. Melancholic. Jimmy frowns slightly. It's a tragic picture to look at but still… there's a twisted part of beauty right there. He looks even closer. Freckles. Some thin and worn-out leather or braided bracelets. Otherwise, he's topless, which is no wonder; despite the rain, the temperature almost didn't drop a degree tonight.

Another figure emerges from the background. Tall. Male. Jimmy catches a glimpse of a black ACDC shirt before the curtains are pulled closed. He watches the shadows move behind it for another moment before he goes back to his writing.

Quiet. Peaceful. Summer rain is Jimmy's favorite weather.

* * *

When the sun is out the next day, the rain is long forgotten in midday heat. Jimmy trots into the kitchen, towards the coffee machine. He worked late and just got up. He dares to give a glance towards the stove's clock - four pm. Not his earliest start into a day… but neither his latest.

The cup isn't done being filled when a lawnmower roars into the silence. Jimmy's head flicks up, irritated by the sudden noise, finds the source through his kitchen window right across the street. It's the boy from the window. Topless, again, in a pair of jeans which are a bit too saggy and big for his thin frame. Absently, Jimmy sips the strong brew his friends jokingly call his "author juice" and moves closer to the window, eyes somewhere between the boy and the mower.

 He is skilled. Lean muscle pushes the machine that appears a bit ancient for the current year across the front yard. Jimmy studies his face, eyes, only little dark dots from the distance. Jimmy searches for a word, quickly finds it - determination. It's good to see a boy who is taking his chores seriously nowadays.

The grass is cut before Jimmy's cup is empty. Slow sips go with long stares, following the sweep of forearm over shiny forehead, precise packing away of the mower, steps of naked feet across soft green first and bland concrete tiles later. The front door closes and he's gone again. Jimmy waits, and yes, the giant windows can't hide what's happening in the living room. The boy passes through, to the open kitchen, towards the fridge, for a coke supposedly, Jimmy concludes.

It's a funny thought that they're in the same room in obviously mirrored stock-built houses, across one street, a simple stripe of concrete. Like a different dimension, another version of what's happening in each house. Jimmy snickers into his mug, starts to feel the caffeine's effect to his system. It's a nice day. He'll get another few pages done today, he can feel it.

Glance back to the window, he catches the boy's eyes, placed directly on him. The boy is turned towards him, leaned back onto the cooking aisle, just like Jimmy, and observing, just like Jimmy. The chuckle dies in his throat, he drops his head. Eye contact has never been his favorite thing. He clears his throat to ease a sudden rush of nervousness, which is silly, because who could see him, judge him for his weakness right here and now?

Amelia said it'd be better like this. They could still be friends, right? It just wasn't working out. She thought he'd be the type who'd just need time - to warm up, to open up, to someday share his tiny crazy world with her. Well. Turns out Jimmy isn't that type.

But it's okay. He isn't lonely. Not exactly. He has everything he needs here. His books. His laptop. His coffee. He's never lonely. Not really.

Another shy glance up, but the boy is gone now. Jimmy turns to have the machine run another cup and starts reviving the next chapter in his head.

* * *

It's easiest when he doesn't think. Thinks of nothing. Of air. Less than air.

It's a bit like not existing. That's why he likes it so much.

The pool water is fresh, not too much, even though he wishes it was colder. When it's freezing cold, his body feels the best kind of sensation: numb.

Dean floats on his back, eyes closed, but the sun gleams right through his eyelids. It's Thursday. That means social studies and then some modern law studies and then- He hears the engine from far down the street.

It's a nice neighborhood. Friendly people. Many families. Quiet. Peaceful. Dean hates it.

He'd never thought he'd one day miss the time on the road, the motels, the anonymity. Arrived today, gone tomorrow. It's barely a month and he'd give one of his legs to escape what their lives obviously have turned into. It doesn't feel real. Doesn't taste real, sound, smell. But at least it _looks_ real. For God's sake, does it look _real_. At least from the outside.

The car door, the front door, kitchen, fridge, a can of coke. Dean wonders if he'd stare into the sun long enough, he'd go blind. Without trying it already hurts, so it must be true. The glass door slides open and he pretends he's not there.

"School's out early today?"

Sam sounds casual, no threat, no invisible question mark in his voice, no hint of anger or anything. Sounds tired.

"Yes," Dean answers quietly.

"You mowed the lawn yet?"

"Yes," he repeats.

"Good." The pause is short but heavy. Dean knows. "He'll be back at seven, so… yeah. Good thing you did that already." A sip from the can before he puts it on the table. "Damn, it's boiling."

Dean keeps his eyes shut, concentrates on flooding, staying stable, sparing the water from waves. He hears Sam undress, cotton hitting tiles, naked feet crossing them. When the water moves, it upsets him in such a sincere way it makes him frown.

It's theirs. Their house. Their pool. Their garden. Their proudly grown bushes and trees, keeping nosy eyes outside. Nobody cares if they swim in their underwear. God knows they don't have anything to hide from each other anyway. Dean is mad it still feels strange to him.

Sam crosses the pool and picks Dean from its surface, his light weight reduced to nothing with the water supporting him. There is no struggle, just a short grimace, but Dean controls himself quickly again. He's cradled, kissed on the crown of his hair, smells aftershave, sweat, old books, the Impala.

"I don't want him to come back," he mutters against broad chest, solid enough to be a wall, shield, prison. The nape of his big brother's neck still is his refuge, even now.

Another kiss, slight squeeze around his shoulder, the back of his knees. "I know." He noses at Dean's cheek. "Me neither."

It's a whisper. A secret.

It's a nice neighborhood. The water is quiet again; peaceful. Dean hates it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How it all started somehow, with dad and beds and Sam, and how the brothers spend their evenings now, at their new place. (Dean’s POV.)

Most of the time, it's sounds or smells that bring him back to Ohio. Spring air in the night, window ajar to invite it in. 

The bed squeaks. It's off. Wrong. Dean presses his ear into the pillow and pretends not to hear it. 

Sam makes funny noises. Dean's never heard anything like that before. He tries hard to keep quiet. Dad does, too. 

His face burns, he's sweating, even under just a thin cotton sheet at the current temperatures. He hasn't moved in what feels like an eternity, terrified of what will happen if he does. Just asleep, just asleep, nothing's happening, just asleep. Just a dream. Nightmare. 

At age ten, he doesn't understand. Can't. 

* * *

Dad praises, kisses, hugs, touches, yells, hits, fights, drinks. Dean doesn't remember anything from before Mary's - mom's - death, so he doesn't know the difference. Sam does. 

Sometimes, at night, when dad isn't around, he hears his brother cry. Sometimes doesn't hear but feels, senses, just knows. When he opens his eyes, Sam sits at the table or is hidden behind a bathroom door. He doesn't share everything anymore, not nowadays. Dean starts understanding that. 

Werewolves, death, girls, knives. They talk about that. Sam gives advice where Dean can't find the answers himself. They fight and scream sometimes, too, but it's different when dad's there; Dean feels that now. Sees Sam hunch his back, roll his shoulders forward, tip his nose downwards. Hears him breathe when dad puts a hand to his shoulder for a pat for that other A he just brought back home. 

"You continue studying this hard, you'll get to college one day, Sammy," dad beams, so proud he looks like exploding from it; the big big smile he only uses on his oldest. 

Sam returns it with a shrug and a shy laugh, like a grunt, like he doesn't believe in it anyway. 

When Dean learns what college means, that it means dorms and staying in school all day and learning and opening up to the world, he understands his brother's reaction. 

* * *

"C'mere, Dean." 

It's way past midnight. It's Friday. Dad's been to a bar; he smells funny. Dean wishes to turn into thin air underneath the covers. He's only eleven. 

"Dean." 

Rough command. Dean knows better than ignoring that. Where he takes the power to actually turn around and look at them, he doesn't know, not even today. 

Sam's on dad's lap, they are naked, dad's flannel carelessly unbuttoned and splayed across his chest and the bed. He smiles at Dean, reaches out with his left hand. Sam turns his head to avoid eye contact. His bangs swing back and forth in front of his eyes each time he moves. 

He wants to swallow but there is nothing but tongue in his throat. It's summer, he's sticky. Thin legs and trembling joints carry him towards his father's outstretched hand. He takes it. It's wet. 

One soft pull and he's right there, next to them, on the bed. Sam makes a whining sound. Dean holds his breath. 

"Come, lie next to daddy, Dean." John's voice is rough. It's whiskey, he believes. The way Dean presses against his side is stiff. Dad's hand around his shoulder holds him there, pulls him closer. His head resting on naked, hairy chest, Dean stares into nothing, his knees touching his brother's. Here, he smells aftershave, sweat, old books, the Impala. Leather jacket. 

"Your brother's so pretty." Sam sobs, holds back the sound but Dean knows the little tricks he uses already. "J's look at'im. Such a pretty boy." 

In the corner of his eye, Dean sees dad's right hand lift. He imagines a soft stroke of thumb on cheek, like he sometimes does to Dean when he had been drinking and thinks that Dean's already asleep. Or still asleep. 

He hears John's smile in his words. The big big smile he only uses on his oldest. 

"Such a pretty boy," he groans, "My pretty pretty boy, Sammy."

* * *

They have their own rooms here. It's strange, feels unnatural. Too much space between them feels like an open wound; even now. 

In nine out of ten nights, Dean ends up in his brother's room, lies on his bed while Sam reads piles of books packed in fat leather bindings, writes thick packs of papers, mutters repetitions of definitions. Dean falls asleep listening to all of it, distinguishes the constant, almost inaudible scratch of tongue over teeth from across the room through all the rustling of paper. 

He dreams of college. Somewhere far away. He's read you can study abroad nowadays if you're smart enough. Dean wonders if Sam one day will be smart enough. 

When he wakes, it's dark, he's heavy, throat dry, skin warm and tingly where big hot palms stretch over its naked parts. The kisses are different from dad's, wet, a little desperate. Sam spreads over him and he has to groan from the weight, the heat. Dean's hands slide down their bodies, yes, he knows what to do, yes, he's a good boy, yessir, yes daddy, yes Sammy. 

One firm grip and Sam grunts into his open mouth, rolls his hips, grinds into Dean's. He's impatient. He always is. Like they're on the run, like there's no time. Dad sleeps next door but sleeps tight. Dean's sure of that - because Sam made sure of that. On the hard days, it's Sam. 

Dean pulls it free and pumps slow and steady then, just like they taught him, while Sam reaches under him and into his briefs and pulls them down, just low enough to have enough of an access. He always makes sure to have it wet and soft. Dean is thankful; dad doesn't always care. 

Sam licks the inside of Dean's mouth, his teeth, while he pushes inside, holds him by the shoulders, pins him like a dog, eats up his moans or any sound really that he squeezes out like this. It's been some years and Dean still has them, keeps an undying stock deep down his throat, his belly; all for them, their dicks, their hands, their tongues. He hates himself for it. They love it on him. 

The fuck is quick, easy and cozy to fall asleep soon after it. Dean forgot about good night rituals they had before That a long time ago. 

It jumps, jerks inside of his body. He whines. Sam groans, fucks deep, reaches almost as far as John does by now. Dean is afraid his brother might be a secret giant and crush him one day during practice or during That. Sometimes he jokes about it with him - the training part, at least. 

Fingers braid into his short hair, scrape the skin, pull the dirty blond so Dean has to arch, not only his neck but his whole body, and Sam pushes his hips out another bit and so they stay for a while; Dean's lower body lifted from the bed a few inches, buried securely in his brother's lap. 

Sam catches his breath hunched over Dean's chest. Dean rubs his shoulders and then up his neck, into his long, adorable hair, shiny and soft like a girl's. He knows a ponytail suits his big brother. It makes him look a little like a movie or rock star. He's so handsome it sometimes hurts. But Sam hates ponytails. 

Disconnecting, pulling up underwear, lying down next to each other. There is no big ceremony about any of it. Dean places his head on his brother's chest. Here is no hair. Here is no leather jacket scent. He wishes Sam would use a different aftershave than dad. 

They fall asleep to the synchronized beating of their hearts. 

Dean dreams of college. Sam wishes he could dream at all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How they ended up in the suburbs. (John’s POV.)

Nobody on earth would have expected John to be suitable for an office job, a manager position, even. But here he is, wrapped in an expensive suit, hair and beard moderately trimmed. He doesn't need a suitcase when he leaves the house. The company doesn't pay him for paper work - thank God. 

He talks, convinces, weakens, breaks the clients for his coworkers to strike the deals. Big ones. They sell weapons. Guns, bombs, tanks, you name it. Importing from Germany, exporting to Israel, because why the fuck not? There is money to be made. 

It was only meant as a joke from his hunter buddy back in New York where they travelled through two months ago. His sons' faces didn't even flinch at it, John knew, because they didn't take any of it seriously. Of course they didn't. Vietnam-/demon veteran John Winchester, CEO. "That'd make a great name-plate for your daddy, wouldn't it, boys?" Sam curled his lips politely but that was all communication for the evening from him. 

Of course it's crazy. Insane. Blatantly impossible. But somehow, maybe even because of that, John goes for it. Because why the fuck not? 

Maybe he'll just do it temporarily. It'd be a nice thing to have a bit of money on the side for extra ammo and everything else they need or might need. Not earning dinner for the boys behind a billiard cue sounds promising. 

So he tries - and the bastards really hire him, with pleasure, even. You don't need no resume or college education with the mouth and mind of a Winchester. 

The advance is enough to rent a pretty house in the suburbs. John pays three rents in advance, just because he can. It pleases the saleslady and has the boys' faces drop in fascination. It's completely worth the annoyingly tight tie and collared shirt he has to wear. 

He'd drive the Impala but his boss says he should get something more expensive, something that screams "power". So John hands the keys to Sam after a visit to the nearest BMW dealer. He doesn't exactly like the car. It smells wrong, feels wrong. The leather is of fine quality but he misses the soft give of the backrest. He gets accustomed to it every time he picks up one of the boys from school. The scent of their naked skin has him tolerate the change after a few weeks. 

Hunting is on halt now and John still hasn't figured out if it's really such a good idea. Each night he checks the salt lines, the runes, hex bags. Rifle next to the nightstand, knife underneath his pillow. He has the boys do the same. There's a gym at the office he visits each day. He can't allow weakness. Maybe the demon knows, sees what he's doing, and smells a chance to take them down. But John won't let it. 

When he comes home, it's surreal. Quiet. Peaceful. Cicadas chirp in the neatly grown trees, the air shimmers with heat, the sky slowly turns into shades of pink and orange. Smell of freshly cut grass has him hum approvingly before he unlocks the front door and enters. 

It's theirs now. Their door mat, their corridor. John locks the door, clicks all four mechanisms shut, activates the alarm system. Kicking his shoes off, he sniffs for dinner, and yes, his boys got it done in time, like he told them to. They're good boys. 

They're silent at the table. Even after almost two hands full of weeks, they don't seem to trust the situation, not completely. He thinks Dean actually likes it, he enjoys the sun, the pool, his own room. Things John knows he barely got to offer his children. But now he can. Now he's a good dad. 

"Had a nice day in school, you two?" He's in a good mood. Sam did a great job with the steak. 

"Yeah," his oldest mutters into the fork, brushes through his hair with the other hand. He looks really tired. He studies so hard. John wonders if he maybe, actually, _could_ afford to send him to college. There surely is a way to- oh. Hunting. He forgot. Out of nowhere, he laughs, notices the boys' startle but doesn't really mind, just amuses himself about the fact he got so used to this absurd image of a perfectly sweet apple pie suburbs family life that in the first time since Mary's death he actually forgot about the whole demon issue for five damn seconds. He takes big sips from his beer and has the laugh melt into a soft, sad smile. 

"I uhm. I gotta finish this book report for tomorrow," Sam murmurs when all plates are empty. He avoids John's eyes. John loves how the three of them developed such a nice and subtle way of communicating. He can read them, they can read him - and nobody else can. They're a unit, a pack, family. Nobody else's. 

"Okay, Sam." He softens his voice, not a lot, since it's already calm. Evening voice after satisfyingly calm days. "Don't stay up too long though, alright?" In the corner of his field of vision, he sees Dean's eyes flicker back and forth between them for a moment. Then they pause. His chin dips a little deeper towards his collar bones. 

"Sure," Sam sighs. Despite his self-grown barrier of bangs, John can still make out his son's thick lashes, covering the pretty eyes like black fans. He's growing up so pretty. 

* * *

On the hard days, it's Sam. Because he can take it, knows John better than anyone, has seen him cry, has held him, helped, rescued, carried his father countless times. 

John knows it won't break Sam. He's seen worse, been worse. Sam can take it. 

He's slender, thin and long like a straw, but slowly he's filling, broadening. Finally his body understands that even unbreakable souls and bones need a worthy frame to live in. John loves tracing the new muscle, kissing tight skin, caressing stubble. He loved his boy without all of it and he'll love him after gaining so much more. 

With Dean, it's different. 

He's compact, tough. Like a rubber ball he bounces from contact, beams with energy, heat, fight. At fourteen, he's further than Sam had been at his age. He's got more baby fat than him; more material to use for his cells. Sam spoiled the kid with food he should have used for himself but couldn't bring himself to deny his little brother the few bites that were left so many times. More times than John wants to admit he left them to deal with. 

He's soft, warm underneath his hands. Still squirms from touches; not like Sam. One of John's favorites is the hitch in his voice that came up lately, a crack, squeak, especially when he's exhausted but John still pushes him further. He can't wait to hear it every day when it finally breaks his voice completely, turns it deeper, rougher, like theirs. John loves sucking on the spot where a bump will show soon, like he's forcing it to come out, to invite it early. 

On calm days, it's Dean. Because he's soft, fragile. He needs to be pampered; takes a lot, but not everything. They're still working on that. One or two more years and he'll be perfect, like Sam in some way, but at the same time completely different. 

Sam often reminds John of himself. Dean always reminds John of Mary. 

The sofa is gigantic, ridiculous. The TV follows suit. John grew a liking to combining classic movies with sad women and bitter men with the sofa underneath him and Dean in his arms. Piano tunes and exaggerated sound effects, sobbing and gunshots melt perfectly into Dean's soft noises. His weight on his lap is just right to push him nicely into the soft cushions, like a massage. 

He smells like chloride and sun and salt and bed. John kisses lips, cheeks, ears, neck, bites only softly. Dean hiccups his breaths when he moves or is moved or when John rolls his own hips, pushes up, pulls him down. Dean's arms are wrapped around his shoulders, like he told him to put them. They're naked, the air conditioner isn't on a too high setting; it's cozy and comfortable and simply nice. 

Wet and tight, it's a slow drag. When he pulls Dean's cheeks apart, it stretches, and has the boy gasping. John licks at his sunburned lips, fat and pink, shoves his dick up deeper into his belly, soft but flat. It used to show that adorable bulge but now it's only visible in specific positions. If John'd put his hand there, he'd feel it, still. 

"I love you, baby, I love you so much." He kisses, tongues, moves a tad faster, thinks that a slap of skin on skin would match the background music perfectly. Dean comments it with a whiny moan, is stretched again, lets John have at his mouth. He's pliant. A good boy. "Love you so much. Do you love your daddy? Come on, do you love your daddy? Tell me, Dean, tell me, come on." 

"Love you." It's forced between moans, quietly, he can barely catch his breath now, is bouncing in John's big hands, his ass jiggling underneath his fingertips. 

John smiles into the kiss. "Who do you love, Dean?" 

"Love you, daddy." 

"Again." 

"Love you, daddy." 

"Who does my good boy love?" 

"I-I love my daddy." 

John stares at his son through halfway shut eyes, studies his freckles, thick lashes, closed eyes. He's flushed pink, from exertion and sunburn. Upturned eyebrows almost vanish under thin blond locks on his forehead. "You're so pretty," John pants, fucks harder, feeds on the twitching of Dean's facial muscles, "So pretty. My pretty boy, Dean. Such a good boy. What do good boys get, Dean?" 

Dean scrounges his nose, arches his neck, tries to muffle his whining in his throat when John speeds up once more. One hard slap comes down on his completely stuffed ass for the delayed answer. He yelps. "D-daddy's come!" he gasps, "Good b-boys g-get daddy's come, sir!" 

"That is right, Dean." Another harsh slap, to the other side now. Dean screams and tightens up in the most delicious way. "Such a good boy," John grits through his teeth, feels prickling heat fill his lower belly, not much more, not much longer. "Such a good little boy. So good for me, Dean." 

He comes deep, heavy. His vision goes white for a second and he finds Dean's open mouth blindly, closes it with his own, mixes their moans in their created and shared space. Dean squirms in his lap, wants to escape already, as soon as possible. He isn't as patient as Sam. Yet. John pulls him down lower, lifts his left arm to push between Dean's shoulder blades until he's flushed against his chest, forehead against forehead. He waits for it. 

"Thank you, daddy." It comes strangled, quiet. The words and air from his son's mouth are pure bliss against his lips. "Love you." 

John's smile is tired but wide. In the background, an actress sobs. "I love you too, baby. Love you so much."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is more like his father than he’d like to admit. (Sam’s POV.)

"Don't push your luck." It's a threat, his grip iron on his little brother's biceps. "You listen to what I say, you hear me? Now do it." 

Green can be angry. It is most of the time nowadays. Sam doesn't like the view. "Fuck you," Dean spits. 

For a second, Sam plays with the idea of letting it collide here and now, to shut the brat up, to have him duck his head for at least the next couple of days. But only for a second. He lets go and Dean stumbles away a few steps. Another deadly glare and he's up the stairs to change into his jogging gear. 

The new environment isn't doing well on him, Sam thinks. Dean is too much to handle anyway most of the time, hard to be kept in place and in a moderate mood. This situation leaves too much space for his tantrums. With dad gone most of the time, he develops sloppy habits. Candy had always been a problem but the TV kills it for real now. Sam knows Dean plays with the thought of asking for a gaming console. As far as his calculations go, John wouldn't deny it. He barely denies Dean anything. 

He should be happy, content about it. Somehow, he isn't. 

In the backyard, the pool reflects the sunrays in beautiful patterns that reach up into his room. Sam slumps down on his chair and leans back, stares at the ceiling. He hears the front door bang. Good. Dean followed his order. One sigh later, he's back into his books and papers. 

As long as he has them, he won't let them go. In books, he can lose himself, warp into another dimension, another life, another reality. Another family. Novel or scientific topic, it doesn't matter to him. If it keeps his brain busy, it's good enough for him. New material to bury the darkness under is always welcome. 

He's sent several applications for several colleges, gave them Bobby's address to answer to. His weekly check-up call will be his reward for his work in two hours. 

He knows it's silly. Stupid. Reckless. Hopeless. Knows that as soon as he'd leave, John would be right at his heels, drag him back, and after a few weeks or months of "readjustment", as he calls it, it'd be perfectly the same as it had been before. 

Once he had been told that his place is at John's side, in his family, their family. That families hold together. They're there for each other and fight together. With the years, Sam forgot the exact moment it all got so twisted that he forgot about right and wrong altogether. 

Actually, he doesn't want to be mean to Dean, doesn't want to hurt him. Big brothers should protect, support, not torment and destroy. When he's honest with himself, he still loves him as much as the moment John pressed the little bundle of joy into his hands, flames licking at the walls, ceilings, furniture, and told him to _run_. Just the same as when he taught Dean to walk, read, swim, fire a gun, sharpen a knife, cut something's throat. 

Just not the same since those three weeks in 1995. 

"He's yours," dad had told him in a whisper, a secret, "Yours and then mine. You love your brother, don't you, Sam? Don't you want to take care of him?" 

"'Course I do," Sam mutters. He's confused, excited. His nails dig through his jeans. 

"Know you do." He smiles, strokes Sam's sharpening cheeks with his palm. "You're a good boy, right? And Dean deserves to be taken care of. You'll be good to him, right? Like daddy is good to you." 

He swallows. "Yeah." A nod. "I'll take care of 'im." 

But Dean doesn't understand, is scared when Sam looms over him on the bed. It's different. This never happened before. In panic, Dean stares across the bed where John sits and watches in silence. They've done a lot already, but not all of it. Sam'd say it's too soon but on the other hand… it had started earlier with himself. 

"'M scared, Sammy," Dean whines, squirms, so Sam has to hold him by the shoulders. He already kneels between spread legs, his own heartbeat drumming in his ears. He never thought he could get actually excited for something or, well, someone. Thought it'd be no good, his body broken anyway, no hope for anything left. But here he is, his dick filled and fat between his legs, between his brother's legs. Sam is so moved he wants to cry. 

"Shhh," he soothes instead, peppers kisses on Dean's face, cleans up the drops of cold sweat with his dry lips, "It's alright, Dean, it's okay, here, look at me." He wants to do it gentle, different than dad. Wants to really take good care of Dean, to make him feel loved somehow, even though this here has nothing to do with love. When he lies to himself hard enough, he does this because he loves Dean and that Dean loves him back and this is how you show love, right? 

His fingers slide in once more to test the width and Dean barely twitches at that at this point. He used to complain a lot, cry, but they took care of that by now. Sam decides he's ready and pulls them out, rubs his dick with lube-coated fingers and then quickly shimmies closer, right where dad always kneels in front of him in that position. He's crouched down low, their bellies and chests almost touching, but Sam has to keep his hips at a specific angle for it to work, so they don't. 

"Here, look at me, Dean, hey. Hey. Shhh. It's okay. It won't hurt. Come. Relax. Shhh." He almost believes himself when he says it and then pushes in. 

Both their eyes widen and before Dean can cry out, Sam covers his mouth with his own, and before he can push Sam away, he grabs his wrists and pins them to the mattress next to his shoulders. 

His breathing turns erratic in only two seconds. The sensation's incredible, tight but soft and boiling hot. His dick has never felt this good before, even when Dean used his mouth on him. Sam's sixteen and he fucks into someone for the first time. 

The pace is hard to control; all he can think of is to get deeper, deeper, more, wetter, hotter. They pant in tandem into each other's mouth after a few moments of silenced mewls and pleads and begs from Dean. Sam's in all the way quickly and moves softly, rocks his little brother and the bed with his hips. He gets up on his elbows and frees Dean's mouth that immediately spills tiny and less tiny sounds that are almost loud enough to cover the wet slap from where they are connected. 

Sam stares at his little brother in wonder, like when he said his first word and it was his name, Sam, he'd said, and laughed, and beamed, and Sam burst with so much pride. Now that he's so twisted himself, he starts seeing what maybe dad sees in them, the beauty, the word "pretty". There are tears in the corner of Dean's eyes, screwed shut, eyebrows hitched and twisted and impossibly thick. Moonlight paints his cheeks dusty pink, his freckles pale and spread over the tiny, straight bridge of his nose. In this moment, Sam would have never ever guessed he'd break it one year later over a simple, one tad too provocative statement about Mary. 

He fucks, Dean whines, he comes, groans deep. He buries his face in Dean's tiny nape of the neck, but it's enough space for him somehow. He feels himself soften while Dean wraps his arms around his back and squeezes them together tightly. Tiny sobs shake the tiny body. Sam sighs, content somehow. His eyes won't open again for tonight. They fall asleep soon after John softly pulls Sam down and next to Dean instead. Blond hair curls underneath his nostrils and Sam loves the smell, has always loved it. Now loves it more. 

The first three weeks - and Sam knows it's exactly three weeks, he'll never forget that time -, Dean's _his_. He loves, he praises, he fucks, kisses tears away. He manages to make Dean come on day four. On day six, he's mastered the perfect angle for the tiny prostate and doesn't even have to use his hands anymore. 

He manages to smile, honestly, after what felt like years, and it's because of Dean, his perfect little brother, his life. It's the first time his brain comes up with the idea to run away for real - and take Dean with him. 

Dean smiles back at him, but it's different from before. It'll just take time, Sam tells himself. 

John never interferes, most of the time is absent or sleeping or silently watching. Doesn't even touch Sam when he has the chance to, just lets them be. When Sam thinks back now, he should have appreciated it way more. 

The happiness fades soon after these three weeks and John starts new habits of switching between them, depending on his mood, blood alcohol level and their actual behavior. There are strict rules but they don't make sense when Sam thinks about it. It is used for both praise and punishment and at some point of It there is no distinction possible. 

Dean cries a lot during it again, with John being too much for his body to take, so Sam cleans up the mess, kisses him well, caresses him, whispers and rubs until Dean allows him to take John's place between his legs. 

"I love you," Sam tells him over and over while he breathes hard, grunts the words, low and raw. 

Dean stops saying it back to him a few months later.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even though punishment will follow, Dean can’t help but explode from frustration and built up anger. He eventually finds something to blow off some steam with soon. (Dean’s POV.)

It's still hot. Dean hates cardio. He prefers strength training; at least that can be get done with faster. Painful but faster. 

One hour passed and he's back in front of their house, the phrase "their house" leaving his head dizzier than it already is. He's panting hard, trying to catch his breath with his hands on his knees. His clothes are hopelessly soaked. It's disgusting. 

With sweat dropping from his lashes and nose, Dean stares at his new trainers on the ground. Dad bought both of them new ones, now that he earns so much. The money seems unreal to Dean. It's just _too_ much. He has no idea how to handle money. Sam always did that when they had to, back then. 

He turns his head and, again, sees the new guy behind the windows, staring at him, fucking _again_. Dean can't decide between a frown and a laugh so he does both. Pitiful bastard. Staring at teenage boys in broad daylight. And he's always in his bathrobe, too. What a freak. 

Maybe he should tell Sam. The guy would have to readjust the windows a few inches lower so he can continue staring at Dean from his wheelchair afterwards. He laughs again. It's strange how real the possibility is. 

Inside, he kicks his colorful shoes off and helps himself with a big bottle of water from the fridge. Without hesitation or ceremony, he slumps down on the sofa and turns on the TV. Feet up the coffee table and he gulps down the water so fast it makes his stomach hurt. 

Sam's voice is dulled through one floor and one door. "Dean, what the fuck?" 

Dean doesn't look up, doesn't react - except for a burp. 

"Dean!" Sam is raging, practically flying down the steps and crossing the space to the sofa and around it in no time. He kicks Dean's legs off the table - and it's not a soft kick. 

"Wha- Fuck you, Sam, lemme be, for fuck's sake- NO!" He tries to scramble away immediately when he recognizes the situation's character and Sam's mood, but his muscles are too wasted after the run - and Sam is way stronger than him, anyway. 

"No fucking TV, I told you, dad told you, you know the fucking RULES, Dean!" Sam is angry at John for telling them they could be as loud as they wanted in this house, that it's extra sound-proof and nobody can hear them outside. He hates to be screamed at, to scream himself, but he just can't stop himself with Dean and his shit excuse of manners. 

He pins him down, the fabric soft but any fabric turns rough with enough pressure, and Dean screams, kicks, fights for all he's worth. He has to sit on his thighs to keep him down, knees digging into thick flesh and he knows it fucking hurts with all his weight bearing down on it, but Dean doesn't give him much of a choice here. "You just won't listen," he spits and pulls down Dean's running shorts and briefs at once, scrapes his skin with his nails, doesn't care, "You _want_ this to happen, huh?! 'S that it?!" 

"No!" Dean sobs, panic in his voice now, finally. Sam gets hard at the sound. "No, I don't- No- Sam, please-" 

"You shut your mouth." By the time he unzips his jeans, his body has prepared for what's next. He flicks his wrist, once, twice; yes, perfectly ready. "You kick me and you'll regret it, I swear to God, Dean." He watches Dean's eyes water and squeeze, his lips turn into a thin line while he climbs down the legs, pushes the knees up instead, right up to Dean's shoulders. 

"Please don't," Dean begs, voice wrecked like this, lungs forced tight in his chest, "Please, p-please, at least get the blinds first, please." 

Sam stops in his movement, thinks fast, approves of the idea. No sound doesn't mean no visuals for outsiders. He raises his eyebrows down at the boy. "You'll be good if I get up?" 

"Yes," Dean hiccups, pulls his knees up closer, "I'll be good, so good, I swear." He reaches underneath that certain pillow and produces a bottle of lube, squeezes some onto his fingers and pushes in two at once; has to demonstrate that he is really willing to listen now. 

Sam watches all of it with flared nostrils. He puts his dick back into his pants and gives a sharp slap to Dean's knee, but not a heavy one. A strange way to show affection, but it's his one. "You know you don't deserve lube, you fucker." 

"But you like it when it's wet," Dean groans softly, not provocative. It's his "bed" voice. It's especially soft and took him some time to develop. He uses it to get what he wants and that ranges from avoiding a beating to getting a new Walkman. The voice comes with an adorable pout. Neither Sam nor John can say no to that for long. 

"Bitch," Sam hisses and gets up, closes the blinds and- Eyes stare at him, foreign ones. He didn't pay attention to whether or when the house on the other side got sold or not. The guy quickly looks away once Sam mirrors his stare. Good for him. 

He returns and Dean lies there like he left him, covered in sweat from the run, knees up his face, ass in the air and stuffed with fingers and lube. "Enough," Sam barks and frees his dick again, weighs it in his palm while Dean withdraws and grabs the backs of his knees instead. He crawls closer, places one hand on the back of Dean's thigh and uses the other to line himself up. Dean chews on his bottom lip with a painful expression when Sam takes a peak at his face. His eyes aren't exactly closed, only two thirds. They're pointed somewhere on the left corner of his vision, downwards. Somewhere nowhere. 

Sam pushes in. Dean tenses, eyes now pressing shut. 

"Don't be such a pussy, for fuck's sake," Sam groans and bottoms out with one sharp thrust that has Dean hold his breath, "It can't be _that_ tight. He fucked you this morning, didn't he. So don't complain." 

Dean doesn't complain. 

* * *

It's week eleven by now, he counted. It's an insanely big number in their statistics. John seems to like the job, their life as it is now. 

Dean feels like a caged in animal. There's so much anger in him he doesn't know what to do. Right now he sits in his room and stares out of the window. He broke some plates earlier that day during a rage fit, so Sam locked him here and now he has to wait for John to come home to punish him. Dean can't do anything but wait. 

He spies into the other house easily; it helps that these windows are insanely big. Bathrobe-guy isn't much of an entertainment, just sits there at his laptop and types, types, types. Not only a freak but a _boring_ freak. If he'd at least jack off or something. But no, fate really wants him to be punished today. 

A peak at the clock tells him that about one hour is left before dad will come back. Another half hour for dinner - which Dean won't see one bite of, naturally - and then- He scratches through his short hair, rougher than he actually needs to. 

Bathrobe-guy gets up and Dean's full attention is back on him with high expectations. But he simply leaves the room, probably for a piss. Dean moans in frustration and puts his head into his hands on top of the windowsill. Fucking tease. 

Now he's back, doesn't sit down immediately. Stretches, picks up his coffee cup; turns to the window where Dean keeps staring. Their eyes meet in a matter of seconds. Bathrobe-guy shies away and Dean laughs, wide and unseen to the world. But then, the eyes are back. 

"Grew some balls, eh?" Dean murmurs into his fingers, eyes fixed on his neighbor. He misses hunting so bad, so so bad. Misses being in control, being the predator instead of the victim for once. Misses the smell of fear from whatever they're hunting, whoever, the panic; misses cutting or shooting through skin and tissue. This here is nothing like it but sadly, it's as much as he'll get. 

He's obviously nervous; the way he strangles his cup says it all to Dean. Dean smiles in the way that lets his teeth show, perfectly straight and white - because They never hit the face and he's been lucky during hunts until now -, tilts his head. He knows the guy'll see them thanks to the harsh contrast to his by now bronzed skin. And yes. He smiles back. Only a quick twitch of his face but Dean's eyes are sharp enough to catch the motion. He laughs once more and watches bathrobe-guy relax a bit around his anchor aka coffee cup. 

Dean raises his hand for a wave, more like a smooth swing of his wrist. Shyly, bathrobe guy raises his free hand and halfway closes, then opens it once before dropping his arm again. Dean smiles. He mouths the word "progress" without an expectation for the man to understand it; but he laughs, a nervous chuckle, and scratches through his messy dark hair, eyes to the ground. Dean bites his bottom lip and snorts a little laugh of his own. 

The hand comes up again, closes and opens once, and then his neighbor turns away again, sits down in front of his laptop screen. Dean's smile drops slowly. 

At school, the other kids are none of his interest. It's all alien to him, the things they talk about; TV shows, music, homework, crushes, family issues - how could he ever relate? When someone goes near him, students, teachers, he feels uncomfortable. He leaves or _makes_ them leave; the second option being his favorite. 

It's okay with the girls though; with them, it's different. They tend to like him because he's so "cool", how they call it. Dean isn't too convinced about that himself but takes their attention anyway. They seem to like his big mouth and the way he can swear like a sailor. It makes them giggle and blush and that's an adorable sight, Dean thinks. But short chats are all he invests. After Rebecca, he can't, just can't. If dad, or worse yet, Sam, would find out he was seeing a girl, _again_ \- 

His room isn't too gigantic but bigger than a lot of motel rooms they stayed at, all three of them together. His sheets are smooth and cold against his skin, the windowsill, made of marble, as well. Still not cold enough, though. 

Nausea mixes with heat in his stomach when it twists, growls. He blinks through the afternoon sunrays outside. Bathrobe-guy types. 

If he'd jump out of the window, would he break a leg? 

* * *

"Please, please stop, daddy, please!" 

"You know this ain't my fault, Dean, you know that." 

"Please, it hurts, I'll be good, please, please!!" 

"Should've thought of that earlier. And stop crying for once, _Jesus_ Christ! You _wanna_ make me mad? This not good enough for you?" 

"N-n-no, no, please, I'll be good, I-I won't-" 

"Shut up. _Shut the fuck up_. God, I hate you. Look at you. This is how you repay your father, huh? This how you _treat_ your father? Cause him trouble after he worked his ass off for you and your goddamn brother the whole day? You make me _sick_." 

"AAAH!!" 

"SHUT UP I SAID! God, you fucking little shit; I'll show you, oooh, I'll _show_ you!!" 

* * *

Temperatures dropped over night. The grass' dew is cold on Dean's naked feet when he crosses through it, concrete of street not boiling yet; it's only ten a.m. 

Dad called in sick for him at his school since he can't really sit. The teacher is told Dean has a nasty headache. 

Actually, he's under strict curfew. Actually, they should know better than leaving him in a locked down house with more sharp objects than they usually have on hand the times they need them. The security system is no problem as well, naturally. Dean isn't stupid, even though they tell him that a lot lately. Maybe it's better they actually believe in that. 

He saw that he's up. Walking hurts but at least he's doing something else than pitying himself while lying flat on his stomach. Curiosity kills the cat, right? Right. So he passes the street, the mailbox, gives it a short glance. "J. Novak". 

The ring of the bell leaves an echo in the hallway that even Dean can hear from outside. A peak through the painted glass parts of the door tell him that it's completely empty. No sideboard, carpet, nothing. He makes an unimpressed dance of eyebrows and corners of his mouth. If their house hadn't come with complete furniture, it'd look exactly like this as well now. 

The tell-tell of scuffing steps has him rearrange his posture; torso upright, shoulders down, knees a bit bent. He thinks that's how maybe the guy would expect him to stand, how he'd expect him to be like. How a normal kid would stand in front of a door. It doesn't exactly feel right for himself, but he can do it. 

He's seen and identified through the glass parts by confused eyes that come closer, now faster. Dean leaves his poker face on. The door swings open. 

"Hey, Mr Novak." Dean tilts his head in the most innocent way. Because everybody likes puppies. "I think our mail got mixed up."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy doesn’t expect the turn of events that result from Dean inviting himself into his house. (Jimmy’s POV.)

If he had been asked how they ended up in his office room, Jimmy wouldn't have had much of an answer for that someone. The boy shuffles through his stuff absently and makes little approving noises here and there. He damns the bathrobe. Nothing should make you feel this comfortable without wearing underwear and yet keep you moderately clothed. It's a bad habit, he understands now, a really really bad habit. 

The mail, apparently only some unimportant ads, lies downstairs on the kitchen counter, shamelessly forgotten at this point. "This your works?" freckles asks as he points at a certain part of one of Jimmy's many bookshelves. 

Jimmy shuffles closer, ducks his head unconsciously. "Uhm, no, they're over there, under 'N'." He nods towards another shelf. 

"Alphabetical order? Wow, OCD much?" he snorts and makes two steps to the side to get in front of the correct part of the collection. Jimmy doesn't exactly understand what the boy means; he's quite sure this way of keeping books in order is very common. But he puts that aside. 

From the distance of only a few steps compared to several meters across the street, including a double wall of window frames at most times, the image of the kid is way different. It isn't only an image anymore, he's _here_ , in this very room, together with him, radiating energy and a warmth of some kind. Jimmy decides it must be the simple human presence and the sad fact that he has grown completely unfamiliar to it over the past months. When he really thinks about it, this kid is the first visitor he's had here yet. 

Freckles pulls out one especially thick book and weighs it in his hands before turning it around to have a look at the summary on the back. 

"It's a fictional novel," Jimmy murmurs, trying to pick easy words so the boy will understand, "about the civil war. It's about a man and his family at that time. And how they cope with the events." 

"Heavy," the boy replies, eyes flying over pages he flips through carelessly. Jimmy feels like he has to sell his manuscript to one very bored agent right now. 

"H-he uhm. He gets disabled during a fight and then has to return home." 

Freckles frowns into the pages but his mouth smiles. "So war itself wasn't depressing enough for you, huh?" 

Encouraged by the smile, Jimmy steps closer until he can slide his finger over the spines of his books, his babies, as he sometimes calls them when no one is around to make fun of him for it; until he can smell the kid, heavy with soap and sun. It's a shame he barely manages to breathe out of nervousness. "These here, uhm, were all written by me over the last fifteen years. This is my first," he pauses his finger at a medium thick one, "and this is the latest." Hardcover, leather-bound - he has his taste. And with his career in his back, the publishers obey to his wishes, finally. 

He peeks to his side and watches the boy's eyes wander over the letters, neat and firm in one row in front of his nose. It's bubbly in the front and minimally crooked on the bridge; kind of hard to make out under the deep layer of freckles he keeps there. His skin looks dry, sunburnt, not properly kept, but still gleaming, oh so gleaming in the slowly strengthening sun. When his lips part to speak, Jimmy pays attention to them for the first time and for the time being won't be able to fall asleep without thinking of them first. 

"Crippled veterans all you write about, Mr?" 

Jimmy tries to think of other words than "fat" and "pink" and "mouth" and clears his throat to buy some time for it. "N-no, I-I. There are novels and there are scientific topics. Social ones, for example; here, this one, uhm-" He wants to reach out for another book, far to their right - and goddammit, why is it so far away -; the boy has to move a bit or he will brush against his chest. But he doesn't move and Jimmy is torn between reaching out anyway and being polite; it must look silly, like a physical stutter. He feels heat rising to his face, creeping up his neck. Why is it so hard to deal with people? Why does he have to be so awkward all the time? He curses himself for another of the many times in his life. 

"I never thought the phrase 'Peeping Tom' really suited the thing, you know?" 

Jimmy freezes. The boy hasn't looked up from the books, shoves "When I came Home" back into its place, eyes dropped lazily, heavy lashes hovering just above his cheeks. The green irises seem unreal in the light from this angle. When he turns his face towards him, the spark they radiate is dangerous. He instantly has to think of a cat. 

"No wonder, I mean… your name isn't 'Tom', right? Mr J dot Novak?" 

Jimmy feels like a mouse. "I- uhm- I- i-it's-" He hasn't had a panic attack in years. The certainty of having thrown out all of the old medication doesn't help. His lungs knot up in his chest instantly while he desperately tries to find words, an explication, an alibi, anything- 

A firm hand comes down on his chest; its warmth perceptible even through the thick robe. It's like snapping awake from a bad dream. He stares into green. 

"Jesus, man, calm yo'self. I ain't no cop. And there are none waiting for you outside. Okay?" 

"J-Jim," he stutters, cold sweat breaking out of his pores even though he feels the panic melt from his body again, "Jimmy. My name's Jimmy." 

His laugh is high, barked out like a jagged breath. Jimmy is beyond feeling ashamed for his awkwardness at this point. At least someone in this room enjoys it. 

"Okay, _Mr Novak_. Mr Novak? You with me?" His hand lifts, moves up his neck, through sweat and over a pulse so raging it must be visible, and stays there, cups it. 

Jimmy's brows twitch into a slight frown. "Y-yes." 

"Okay." Freckles' smile doesn't really make sense to Jimmy. He's thankful for it, but still. "Calm down, okay? I'm not mad at you for stalking my every move." 

He tries again. "I- I wasn't-" 

"Mr Novak, don't play dumb on me, alright? I am way too old for taking your shitty lies, so please, spare both of us from that." 

The warmth of the hand makes Jimmy realize how cold he actually is. He huffs, catches his breath from doing exactly nothing, feels the skin of a roughened palm scrape his sensitive neck along with it. "H-how old- how old are you, then?" Again, he doesn't have an exact reason to ask for this information. At least that's what he'd like to tell himself. 

Freckles' head drops an inch while his smile explodes and many of the precious brown spots hide in deep wrinkles around his eyes and cheeks. While he barks another wave of laughter, Jimmy finally feels heat rising to his head again. Maybe a bit too much, actually. 

Yet another smile. It leaves Jimmy running those first few lines of Nabokov's in his head over and over, like a chant, a prayer, an inevitable truth. 

 

_Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins._

_My sin, my soul._

 

"If I told you, would it stop you from staring at me like earth's last slice of cake?" 

Jimmy swallows. The answer on his tongue scares him. The hand knows, feels it throb there, probably. He doesn't answer. Doesn't have to. 

The smile is unbroken, eyes switching between the two of his own, back and forth, back and forth, slowly, so Jimmy can follow, watch the pupils dilate and constrict as in a dance, a performance. For the first time, Jimmy gets a faint idea that maybe, it's all this here was from the start, from when their eyes first met, from when he got goose bumps from staring into these gems of green. 

"Yeah. I thought so." 

Calloused but soft it is, this palm. It nudges up his jaw so that Jimmy's head falls a bit to the side. Some moments - decades? - ago, he forgot how to breathe. 

 

_Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth._

 

"So, enlighten me, Mr Novak." 

His breath smells sweet, like pie, and fresh, like peppermint. It's a soft breeze against his lips. 

"Which one's your favorite? My face or my ass?"

 

_Lo. Lee. Ta._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean enjoys how his plan is working out. (Dean’s POV.)

The way he melts right in front of his eyes, right underneath his fingertips - it's delicious. With his hand on his neck, he feeds on the ever-increasing drumming of his blood, wonders if maybe Mr Novak is already hard or if his head occupied all available blood for its own? He doesn't have to check to get his answer. 

He laughs again, feels the man cringe in humiliation, licks his lips at it while tilting his head back up, hollows him right out with his gaze. This, he's never used on dad or Sam. They wouldn't buy it anyway, and he couldn't pretend it for them anyway. This usually is for girls. Was for Rebecca, 24/7, well, at least "the number of hours he could possibly excuse himself for staying at school/the number of days it took for Sam to find out about the truth". 

But now, it's for Mr Novak. And he reacts just like the sweet little things in his class. All that he lacks are the pigtails. 

"You don't have to tell me, I know anyway." He lowers his hand along the same path it had ascended, approves of the sweat's rise of temperature. Just a bit underneath the bathrobe, he stops, fingers splayed wide over not-too impressive pecs. Authors aren't hunters, obviously. "Do you think of me when you jack off, Mr Novak?" 

When he hits home like that and the man stumbles with his whole being, his soul, even, it excites Dean himself. Blood rushes downstairs and this sensation is so rare to him that he savors it, patiently, slowly, drags it out. It hurts, burns, screams down there, _back there_ ; but the front is more than interested. And this is what is new, exciting. So it dominates the pain easily. 

"I- I- It's nothing physically, not s-s-sexually-" 

"Oh, I am _so_ sure it isn't, Mr Novak." 

"No, r-really, please, listen, wait-" He almost stumbles over all the air around his naked feet, the blank floor, but mostly over his tongue. Dean is very positive it's fat and red and that it'd feel nice wrapped around his own. But he isn't in a rush. "I-I just thought you looked b-beautiful, th-that is all, I promise!" 

The warmth between his legs flees harshly. The adjective is too familiar. His smile drops for a few seconds before he can catch it and replace it with another - the show must go on. "Hm. Which of my parts do you think are beautiful, Mr Novak?" The name rolls from his tongue like a treat. He especially likes the absence of d's and y's in it. 

This time, he wants an answer, waits. He's patient, lets Mr Novak search for his voice in the chaos of his stomach where he knows everything collects before it drops one floor deeper. "Your eyes," he mutters. 

Dean grunts. "Pretty cheesy answer for an author." 

"But it's true," Mr Novak assures, attempts to re-arrange his useless arms and ends up leaning against the bookshelf to his left. He adds: "I'm not lying." 

"You don't look like a middle school student, so why do you talk like one?" 

"I-I'm thirty-four!" The offended tone in his voice makes the whole thing even funnier. 

"Look, Mr, I'll make this one easy for ya: what about my _mouth_?" 

"Y-your mouth?" 

"My _mouth_." It's a great word to put emphasis on, Dean notices. He doesn't even have to _try_ to make it sexy when the letters drop from his well-trained lips; purses them at "u" and shows the delicate tip of his tongue at "th". If he'd take another step closer towards poor Mr Novak, he'd have a perfectly erect dick stabbing his stomach. 

"I-it's a good mouth, I-I guess…" The guy is lucky Dean is so into torturing him, otherwise he'd be long gone thanks to these useless answers of his. But Dean is patient. 

"Oh, it's a _very_ good mouth, Mr Novak." Sweat lets his fingers glide easily in nonexistent patterns over naked, hairless chest. It doesn't seem too stable though. Would it hold his weight if he bared all of it on it with his hands? "There are many ways to use it, you know." 

Breath rattles through the man and Dean witnesses it directly underneath his hand, the vibration, the new wave of sweat, feels and smells coffee-heavy breath brush his collar bones and neck because Mr Novak's head is dropped so he can properly look at Dean and Dean doesn't have to crane his neck to do the same. Something about it, the tremble, the panic, Mr Novak's innocent or not-so innocent excitement, bleeds onto him. The heat is back. It's like a drug. 

Mr Novak solely whines when Dean sinks forward into his chest and simultaneously grabs at his dick, carelessly poking out of the bathrobe since God-knows-when during their conversation. If it wasn't for the shelf's support, he'd fallen straight on his ass now. The man's palms are sticky and sweaty as they come down on his upper arms, grab the biceps' there with so little of what one could call "strength" that Dean is assured Mr Novak only likes to _play_ hard to get. And not even _that_ role he plays very convincing. He pumps his fist, firm but slow. Mr Novak's whole body jumps at that. 

"Why do you think I looked back at you? Came to your house? Hm?" He noses at scratchy chin, jaw, cheek. Voice reduced to a whisper, he can listen to the wet slick of hand on precome-dribbling cock while he makes the last working cells of his neighbor's brain fall apart for good. 

"Do you want to stuff my mouth with your dick, Mr Novak?" 

When he hears the heavy gasp, he bites at the stubble, the corner of the mouth, the upper lip; ignores the pursed lips, avoids the kiss. "Wanna suck your dick, Mr Novak. May I? May I? _Please_." 

A grunt is enough of a command for him that sends him to his knees, hand wrapped tight around the base, eyes upwards, _always eye contact, Dean, don't you_ dare _look elsewhere_. Mr Novak stares back in wonder, like he didn't expect this, like he didn't see this coming when Dean had rang his doorbell for the shittiest excuse known to mankind, like he doesn't expect Dean to be as dirty and rotten as he is. He laps, once, tongue broad, across the underside of its head. Mr Novak yelps. Dean grins - and swallows it whole. 

His reward is a strangled sound from the man, like he's dying or choking or got his nuts kicked into last week and Dean would laugh again if it wasn't for the dick in his throat. Both of his hands are in his lap now, the right pressing up against the building bulge in his jeans. Mr Novak doesn't even notice. They'd _always_ notice and then swat his hand away. But They're not here. 

He pulls back completely, balances the tip on his tongue while he takes a deep breath and then repeats, barely gags anymore nowadays, and this one is smaller than dad's or Sam's, so this is kindergarten. The sounds are wet, sloppy, familiar; Mr Novak's moans make it bearable. 

Soon the rhythm is found, a mixture between simple bobbing back and forth and twisting his whole head to the sides so he can feel the ridges and veins spin against the back of his throat. He starts sweating, blushing, rubs his dick through the thick jeans, ignores the pulsing ache in and on his ass. He rarely gets this excited - and never before on his own will. 

He chose this. He wanted this. He is in power. 

Dean hums around the thick flesh and makes Mr Novak shiver with it. 

"Fuck my face," Dean groans, voice ragged already, doesn't care. He takes it back down his throat before the ropes of spit and precome can drop from it. But Mr Novak is too caught up, too confused, overloaded with this surprisingly blissful morning to listen, maybe too shy to do what he's asked for? Patience lost with a dripping dick of his own to take care of, Dean's free hand comes down on Mr Novak's ass and pulls and pushes him until something like a steady pattern of thrusts is achieved. After a minute, his hand can return to his lap while Mr Novak's hips do their own thing. 

His own hand feels wonderful through the fabric, he doesn't even need to unzip and free it; actually doesn't want to get naked at all. The jerking motion, right pressure, heavy friction - his thighs start to tremble. 

Eyes full of tears from the worried gag reflex, he stares up once more, right when Mr Novak opens his own, bright and blue like the clearest cloudless sky and Dean's flutter shut with a muffled but clearly high-pitched moan that fills the room like his come fills his pants. 

Mr Novak makes a sound that reminds of a question mark, continues to thrust into the contracting canal Dean at the same time would love to use to make sounds; but he's a good boy, ends what he started, _nobody likes a cocktease, Dean_. The heel of his palm kneads out every last aftershock he can get, his hips rocking, his tortured bottom long forgotten, finally, for once. 

A hand flies into his hair, grips tight while hips stutter helplessly. Dean holds still while it pulses and jumps inside of him, gives it all the time it needs; and it's a lot of time, lot of come. He adds "sexually frustrated" to the "boring nerd". 

His eyes peel open and he searches for Mr Novak's. When they blink open and meet his, he slowly pulls off from the spent cock with tight lips to get it out nice and clean in one go. He doesn't exactly need any more come on his jeans. 

It's not too easy but Dean eventually stands on his feet again, heavy breathing freaky pedo author - he adds a mental note to call him that the next time - in front of him. Lips still closed, Dean smiles, swings onto the tips of his toes to reach high enough for Mr Novak's mouth. Even though he opens greedily at first, Dean can clearly feel the shock running through the man when he is fed a generous amount of his own come. Dean makes up for it by massaging all of it in with gentle dips of his tongue. 

When they part, Mr Novak is staring at him like Columbus at America. "A whole new world" indeed. 

"The name's 'Dean', by the way," he grins.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A usual weekend at the Winchester’s and how Sam shows his gratitude. (Dean’s POV.)

They never found out about his break from the curfew. Mr Novak is being informed that if he ever makes any attempt to get in contact with Dean on his own initiative, the police would be on his ass before he could spell "child abuse". 

Dean decides. Dean is in power. It is made clear. It is his newest try, project, pastime, whatever. _His_. 

Mr Novak will be his pet. It is decided. 

Dean lies awake in his bed, eyes closed, mind wandering in the house across the street. Against Mr Novak's chest, his breath in his hair, while the idiot just holds him tight. Dean figures he's a romantic like that. 

The noises from next door terrified him once - now it's just one usual Saturday night event. It once used to be Fridays, when Sam's week of school would be over; now it's John who has to work on Saturdays as well, so he can't drink too much until then. He always makes sure to get his share as soon as he can, eventually. 

John is a nice drunk most of the time; during the week, before and during hunts, that is. But once he allows himself to fall, to think of the past, Mary, her loss, his loss, his whole damn life, Vietnam, his dad… To Dean, it's no wonder he snaps from time to time. Hell, wonders how any bone in each of their and especially in Sam's body can still be anything but bent beyond disfigurement. 

His brother's screams terrified him once - now it's just one usual Saturday night event. 

Dean's hand traces down his chest, solar plexus, navel, the fine shadow of a treasure trail he would be way more excited about to get if dad wasn't so into it as well. It comes to a rest above his rock-hard dick, fingers brush the soft curve of it underneath pajamas and cotton briefs. Behind his eyelids, he rubs himself on Mr Novak's warm, sweaty palm until he creams it. In reality, he doesn't dare to touch himself with them next door. 

When there's a scary crack and Sam yelps and John screams at him for doing so, Dean thinks of the smell that radiated from Mr Novak's books. It was different from the ones they usually get their hands on for research, and that is every time John gives them with books, really. New. Clean. Cared for. Treasured. Loved. 

There used to be a time when Dean wished for nothing more than to help his brother during these nights. To somehow be able to help, to stop it, even take his place - he'd done it without hesitation. 

This time ended somewhere in 1995. 

Another collision, dumber. There is no cry following it. 

* * *

Most of their neighbors go to Church on Sundays. Regarding the Winchester household, John sleeps off his drink while Dean does his best to fix his big brother up. He figures that every family eventually has its own rituals. 

It's nasty this time. Dean plays with the thought of suggesting seeing a real doctor for the ribs, but knows that Sam wouldn't do it. Would never do it. As long as it's not permanent, it's not worth another beating for "betraying the family" which is John-vocabulary for contacting anyone about anything involving his "parenting". So, basically: about _anything_. 

"You want something, anything? Tea? Soup?" He brushes the wet strands of hair out of his brother's eyes. Sam usually hates that but when he's barely able to move, he lets Dean pamper him for a change. 

He blinks once for "no". 

"Okay." Dean doesn't get up but stays despite the stench of antiseptic. He could never bring himself to leave his brother alone, even nowadays, even after last week, even after Christmas last year. 

It had only been a joke, for fuck's sake; he's only a child, isn't he? Aren't kids supposed to say stupid, reckless things sometimes? Now, every time he looks in the mirror, the unnatural bump of his nose reminds him of how he said that "mom should've fucked a different jackass". 

His hands still look tiny against his brother's paws. They look pitiful, lifelessly folded over his stomach on the fresh sheets. One nail is black. Dean traces its edges with feather-like softness and wonders if it will fall off before or after dad decides to bruise another one. 

"If you get accepted into college, you'll take me with you, won't you, Sammy?" He doesn't look up from their hands on Sam's body, splayed wide and covering his middle like a shield - one that came too late. 

They decided on the blinking code the first time John choked Sam so hard he sprained one of his own thumbs while doing it. Sam hadn't been able to speak for two weeks. The bruises stayed for four. 

Sam's palm is cold and dry as it wraps around Dean's. Even though it must hurt his arm, he squeezes it. 

He croaks a barely audible "yes". 

* * *

It's Tuesday. John works late tonight. It's raining again. 

Sam's recovered fast this time; Dean did a good job. As a reward, he's allowed to come as often as he wants while he's fucked into the mattress, to even touch himself; Sam is generous. 

It's hard to think of Mr Novak while Sam is in a constant flow of talking; Dean also isn't allowed to close his eyes, so it takes a lot of concentration that he doesn't have with a dick hammering against his prostate for handfuls of minutes straight. A grab at Sam's slowly roughening cheek is all connection he can achieve. 

"Love you so much, I love you so much, Dean, I'll never let you go, we'll always be together, right?, won't we?, oh Dean-" 

He barely stops his mouth for kisses and then it's the same old song, over and over, and Dean wished it wasn't so similar to dad's. Maybe then, he could believe in what he hears. 

There is a clock above Sam's desk and it says that it's been over an hour. He's sore, spent, came two times and then once dry, still palms his cock because that's what Sam wants to see. His throat is dry, his ass dripping with Sam's first load from about half an hour ago. It burns like acid on raw skin but he won't complain. That isn't his task here. Has never been. Never will be. 

"Love you, Sammy," he croaks, now the one who can barely speak, tears in his eyes almost dried up if Sam hadn't changed position and forces overstimulation on already tender parts now. 

"Again," Sam pants, fucks faster, makes Dean scream like this, it's too much, but they long forgot where pleasure ends and torture starts; maybe never knew. 

"Love you, big brother!" It's studied, practiced, _well_ practiced. If he says it right, it's over sooner. 

"Again!" 

"Love you, love you, lo-oooh FUCK; Sammy, Sam, SAM!!" 

Sometimes when an orgasm roars through his body, it hurts more than anything else Dean has known. Worse than a broken leg, worse than torn skin and tissue and worse than a lube- and spitless fuck despite both things. Everything cramps, he screams, while Sam can't tell the difference. 

By the time Sam has come as well and lay down on top of Dean, the pain has started to fade while Dean sobs giant hot tears into the wide, naked nape of his brother's neck. When dad isn't at home, he allows himself to cry like this; like a child. Sam doesn't mind it, not after Dean's been such a good little brother for him and assured him of his never ending love. Sam always falls asleep with a smile on his face after evenings like this. 

There was a time where Dean would have ran away with his big brother without hesitation, question, destination. 

Nowadays, he wonders if there'd be any difference compared to staying with dad.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another visit. (Jimmy’s POV.)

Even with Amelia, he's never felt this naked. Not in their most intimate moments, even the real strange and most embarrassing experiences he let her guide him through. Not quite like stripped down on his own bed with this… _being_ , very well disguised as a teenage boy, on top of him. 

Showing up on his front porch like no big deal at nine a.m. in the morning, like it doesn't matter if Jimmy will die of a heart attack or not. 

He had been told to undress and lie down. Dean hadn't even flinched at the sight of his already throbbing erection that showed before actually reaching the top of the stairs. 

Still in his full outfit of tee and shorts, Dean climbs onto him. Their bodies not touching any more or less than at Dean's knees and Jimmy's thighs or Dean's hands and Jimmy's chest, he's being watched by sharp eyes that he knows _know_ how uncomfortable it makes him feel, how naked and vulnerable and imperfect, old and wrinkly instead of young and beautiful like his counterpart he knows he is. A mismatch, harsh contrast, not symmetrical or harmonic in any way - and yet, he's drawn in by it, by the warmth of this body and the cold of these looks; his charisma, way too old for such a young boy with a face so soft it makes him want to kiss and caress it until these pretty eyes soften and fall asleep. 

Dean breathes calmly against his chin while he grinds down and Jimmy can do nothing but to jerk thanks to harsh friction of fabric on his naked cock. He trembles when he makes out the shape of Dean's against his own, both of them trapped between their bellies. Automatically, his arms raise in order to pull the kid closer, hug, feel, do something, _anything_ \- but Dean slaps his left with a flat palm, harsh enough to leave a sting on his skin. "Behave, Mr Novak," he is scolded and lowers his arms back into their former position. Eyes pressing shut while Dean resumes his slow rhythm of circles on his groin, Jimmy flexes his fingers in frustration and helplessness. This shouldn't arouse him, no, it really really shouldn't. He knows this much, his _brain_ knows, for God's sake, but does it help? Of course not. 

Had it helped these past days where all he could think about was that kid, that wonderful thing that turned his knees into pudding and his thoughts into sand and his fingers and toes into lit matches? That kid that could set him off like a firework with only a few words, sounds, looks; a body like walking sin or heavenly blessing - Jimmy can't decide despite arguing about it with himself since that one morning. 

He never gave other people's sexuality much of a thought, but he can't get rid of that nagging question about how in the hell Dean became what he is today, how a teenager can be this naughty and skilled and wonderful and finger-licking good. There is no way he's any older than sixteen. No. Way. And yet, he is so calm, like going over a well-studied technique when handling Jimmy and his arousal… 

_How many did you have? How many other men except me did you turn insane? Who taught you all of this? Who let you have you for the first time?_

"Did you miss me, Mr Novak?" It's a whisper and sweet, oh so so sweet. Jimmy's poor heart trips over itself in nervousness, in affection for this tone. A kiss comes down on the patch of skin the lips can reach and Jimmy sighs at the burn and sting and want it leaves there. "Yeah," another whisper and he knows somehow that Dean is smiling right now, even though he can't see, "Knew you did." 

He smells nice. Wonderful, even. Jimmy thinks of Süskind and wonders if Dean would've been suitable for Grenouille's perfume (and he's quite sure he'd been). Mostly, there's skin, endless skin, warmth, sun, soap; clean and smooth and only for him. He noses at the crown of hair he is presented with when Dean lies down on top of his chest slowly, like a sleepy cat, and nuzzles the nape of his neck like he owns it. _And yes, for God's sake, own it, make it yours, I'll be all yours_. Smells like fresh air and even more sun, and oh, is it soft and just perfect to bury his face in, so Jimmy does. 

Dean lets him, stops moving and just lies there, calloused, warm hands spread wide on his chest, eyes closed. As if he'd listen to Jimmy's heart gallop in his chest like a whole herd of mustangs and as if that'd actually calm him, soothe him. 

He knows Dean'll feel the sweat rise from his pores but he can't just lie here, not like this, not after waiting and hoping and fantasizing and going insane for days. Usually, his lips only chip in winter, but somehow they got dry enough to do it right now. "I thought that you'd maybe… changed your mind…" 

Dean snickers at the confession (and yes, Jimmy knows himself how pathetic he is, complaining like an abandoned dog, but does he have to be _confirmed_?), calmly kisses and then _licks_ his way up his collar bone and Jimmy hadn't thought it to be even possible to feel any more tingly but holy shit it _is_ and he wants to move so badly he's aching. "Why would I do that?" 

"I- uhm- I mean, I'm- I'm really old, after all, and uhm… Y-you're still…" He clears his throat but it doesn't exactly has any remarkable effects on his broken voice. Saying it out loud is scary and arousing and terrifying altogether. "You're still a… a kid…" 

"You're dick's pretty hard for the fact that I'm still a kid." 

Hormones flood his skull and why does that one simple word become so incredibly erotic when it's Dean's mouth that says it? It isn't fair and makes him forget to breathe which Dean must have noticed with this very mouth neatly pressed onto his neck; mouth and teeth and tongue to be exact but it somehow all just turns into one with Jimmy's senses as sluggish and overtaxed as they are. His eyes slam shut when Dean laughs and resumes moving his hips and he knows he is watched, laughed at and kind of being fucked at the same time and never had he ever thought it to be possible for it to be the most addicting thing he'd ever experienced. 

"You're working _so hard_ ," Dean grinds down with especially much force at the last two words so that Jimmy just _has_ to gasp, "Mr Novak, you really deserve someone sitting on your dick." 

A tiny kiss to his chin, another, then moves up to the corner of the mouth. Jimmy's fingers dig into the sheets, searching for friction for the itchy fingertips that would rather slide through blond hair or up these slim but strong arms and underneath that t-shirt and down his neck and back but oh, he can't; doesn't want to disappoint, to chase too much and end up alone because he was being too greedy. Because yes, he has a feeling that's exactly what will happen once he displeases the kid, doesn't play by his rules. He can do it. He will do it. Just as long as this boy never leaves his lap, he'll do anything. 

When he hears a soft sigh that he can actually feel on his face because Dean is close enough to kiss- oh, _kiss_. His eyes slide shut again and he breathes the air Dean exhales, produces stuttering breaths of his own and just knows Dean feels the new wave of sweat that his skin can't help but to push out. It had always been Amelia who had initiated anything, even kisses. She'd accepted that so he had never had to move out of his comfort zone. He now curses his laziness since it let him end up in this one-sided situation where he has to jump into ice cold water head-first, without lifebelt or anything; has to, or he won't get anything. Jimmy's jaw twitches as he makes a shy try to mouth at Dean; and Dean doesn't hush him, kisses the corner again before Jimmy blindly find his lips. It's sudden, impatient, and Jimmy's never thought it'd work or that Dean'd let him and straight-down moans into the shared space between their mouths. 

Barely noticing anything, even the fact that Dean's hips stay perfectly still, Jimmy's lips move like they've never wanted anything else but to kiss Dean, get everything out of it, the sensations, the taste, what it freaking does to his whole body; and Dean lets him but doesn't give much back, only replies hesitantly, slowly, carefully, like Jimmy'll break if he goes at it too hard. But oh, he could do this for hours, will do this for hours if Dean only lets him. 

He knows it's probably a bad idea (really really bad idea) but he decides he'll try anyway - and Dean pulls back immediately at the first flick of a tongue against his mouth. Jimmy whines in loss and squints through his lashes, meets fully awake eyes. "Greedy," he is entitled and Jimmy wants to cry all over now, chest visibly heaving in panic and he curses his impatience like a mantra over and over like a tornado inside of his head. 

"I-I'm sorry-" he starts but is immediately shushed with softly peppered kisses all over the skin that covers his jaw, everywhere but where he wants them back. His pathetic sounds that once again make him feel like a dog stop mattering too much to him by now. 

"Shhh, I know, I know." He shouldn't be the one comforted and has a hard time leaning into the heavenly warm, dry palm on his cheek that rubs over his stubble like it doesn't scratch it. Eventually, he gives in, Dean's whispers in his ears like one of the many voices his skull inherits and who tell him "yes" and "no" in perfect unison with every move or thought by or about the boy. "It's okay. We have time. Relax, Mr Novak." 

It's a hard thing to do when your stomach and lungs are in knots and your balls are so blue it physically hurts, and, no, not the good kind of hurt. No, Jimmy's way beyond that, but he tries, oh, he tries so hard, shuffles his fingers through the sheets instead of grabbing Dean's hips and crushing them on his dick like he'd actually need it right now. His breathing's erratic and pumps out of his nostrils since he's pressed his mouth shut to keep it under control, and he just knows he's everything but sexy like this, just feels horrible - and that's the exact moment Dean chooses to work his hips again. Jimmy almost comes right there and then but grinds his teeth and is reduced to a smooth shudder when Dean snickers once more. 

"Gosh, you're so _needy_ , Mr Novak." 

_Yes, I am, and you're the reason, you damn little-_

"Let's see if you can come just from this." 

Jimmy's eyes snap open and he wants to protest because _yes_ , he absolutely knows he _can_ do that and that he _will_ do that and that it'll take about five seconds at this rate and _Jesus Christ_ , Dean just ruts their dicks together without restraint, stares into Jimmy's face he himself knows must be red and sweaty and oily and his mouth is gaping like a fish's. It's like he's waiting, daring Jimmy to do it, as if this was a game, a fun way to pass the time; how fast can _you_ make Jimmy Novak blow his load? 

He barely blinks from the moment it starts until his dick stops emptying itself in thick spurts he knows will leave Dean's shorts in a mess which he feels all bad and guilty about once it's over, but until then has problems remembering his own name. Breathing comes in choked strokes, his hips jump and fuck upwards but he holds them back as good as he can, bounces Dean on his lap a few times nevertheless but isn't punished. Dean watches, patiently, excited, yes, actually _excited_ , Jimmy can feel his boner right next to his own. The first and only sound Jimmy allows himself to make is a groan Dean absolutely planned on making him spill with sucking in and chewing on his bottom lip like that. 

He drops his head back onto the pillow and lets all muscle go lax, sighs, and sighs once more at the feeling of Dean's mouth on his Adam's apple that he presses down on with his tongue until Jimmy can't help but swallow even though his mouth is as dry as a desert. 

"Man," Dean exclaims, louder now, somehow disappointed, "You really don't get fucked that often, huh."

If he'd have any fighting spirit or, well, any spirit left in him at all, Jimmy would do something different than huffing a tired "uh-uh". 

"Single, huh? Figured that, freaky pedo author. You a virgin?" 

Jimmy knows there's that smile that's not nice or cute at all, just nasty and mean and he wished he didn't know that one just too well. "'ngaged," he mumbles, halfway passed out. 

"Engaged?" Dean repeats and pronounces the word like it's a nasty thing he wouldn't even touch with a stick. A long, long stick. "You? Engaged? With a woman?" 

"Her… her name's Amelia." He succeeds to say her name out loud for the first time in weeks, maybe even months. The sting in his heart has him wake up a little and he blinks open, doesn't have to search for those beautiful eyes that stare down on him in confusion for long. 

There's a short pause before Dean speaks again - after throwing a quick glimpse at Jimmy's left hand. "But. Not anymore. Right?" 

Jimmy wobbles his head, just enough of a movement to count as a "shake". 

"Wow. That sucks. Sorry, man." Dean licks his lips, slides his hands into Jimmy's hair. There's a dumb throb where his heart is and if he hadn't known that he just lost half his bodyweight in come, Jimmy'd been very surprised by the emptiness that now dominates his body. "Since when?" 

"She uhm. She left in January this year." 

"Jesus. That's like… half a year ago. And you _still_ look like shit." 

Jimmy frowns. "We were together for fifteen years." 

Dean's eyes widen and Jimmy is halfway proud of blowing the boy's cover - but the moment doesn't last long. A smile settles back like a well-practiced masquerade (which is probably what it is and has been all along; but Jimmy cannot gather enough imagination for that right now) and the kiss Jimmy receives is so soft and sweet and loving that he forgets about being angry and offended and sad altogether. "But now _I_ 'm here to take care of you, Mr Novak," he's told, kissed again, gets his bottom lip licked and then his teeth and the tip of his tongue. He barely remembers to hold back and not slurp it down and chew it up and kiss and bite and taste like he wants to, just leaves his jaw relaxed and open so Dean can take whatever he wants from- "You can kiss back now." Or not. 

Again, Jimmy's perfectly aware of how absolutely not sexy he is or sounds or taste or smells, and how could he be anything but unworthy of this boy, this being, this thing. They kiss and kiss and kiss and he pants and rolls his hips just enough for Dean not to scold him, sweats like a pig and he's not too sure his cock went soft after his orgasm at all. The way Dean moans and grabs him by his hair and crushes their groins together despite the gooey mess Jimmy left them in tell him that he's doing good and Dean's excited as well and oh God the idea of Dean losing it over him is even better than getting lost all over Dean. 

They part and Jimmy would be upset about it if it wasn't for that tremble in the boy's voice that makes him shudder all along with it. "What's it. Uhm. What's it like? With a girl, I mean." 

Jimmy stares, confused, just as out of breath as Dean who suddenly looks very very young and maybe has a shadow of something like embarrassment on his face. "I-it's. It's n-nice, I guess," he mutters, unsure what he is supposed to say, what Dean wants to hear. 

"Do they- How do they smell like?" Suddenly, Jimmy's not the only one on this bed who's sweating. "I mean. I mean their pussies. How?" 

The _word_ and the question itself hits Jimmy hard in the face and he's so far from female genitals right now that he could swear he's never been near them his whole life. His brows and eyes twitch while he tries to remember. "Uhm. I. Musky. I guess? Heavy? Great? I don't- There's nothing to compare it to, really-" 

"How does it feel like?" 

Probably, the situation _could_ get weirder. Jimmy just doesn't know how. "I can't really describe- Wh-why're you asking that?" 

"Come on, tell me, please!" Dean thrusts his hips and causes Jimmy's eyes to roll back into his skull. If he didn't know any different, he'd say the boy is kind of desperate. 

"I-it's great," he tries, "It's, uhm, wet and hot and just the right kind of tight, I-I guess." Dean looks needier by the second and it's as much of a confidence boost Jimmy will get, so he is brave. Stupidly brave. He doesn't even know why he says it and blames the absence of blood in his head for it. 

"S-so much experience but n-none with a girl?" 

Dean's face drops - and so does Jimmy's stomach. 

He's ruined it now, surely ruined it, oh God no- 

"You've ever done anal, Mr Novak?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has to keep his neighbor in place. (Dean’s POV.)

The look on Mr Novak's face is priceless. The things Dean'd do for a camera right now…! "So that's a 'no', huh? Too bad, too bad," he sing-songs, pushing himself up on his hands braced on Mr Novak's chest, "Cause that is some _awesome_ shit. You really should try it." Mr Novak looks like he's about to suffocate or blow another load or maybe both. Either way, it'd be way more enjoyable if Dean's brain wasn't dumb with rage right now. 

Okay, yes, it had been _his_ fault to give the guy enough space to actually being able to talk back. But that hadn't been _necessary_. Really, no. It's never a good idea to make a nasty move on a Winchester and Dean feels like teaching his neighbor the hard way. 

"Actually," he states, pushing his eyebrows up his forehead and himself down Mr Novak's body, "I think you should try it _right now_." He barely gets to do this with Them but when he's asked to he does a good job, so he's confident he'll succeed in making Mr Novak loose it. 

With strength Mr Novak obviously didn't expect him to have, he pushes between his legs, just shoves the thighs aside and swallows down the persistent cock he knows he _owns_ by now, savors the whine and whole-body-jolt he pulls out of Mr Novak without much of a hassle. But, nah, not that easy, big guy. You wanna play mean? We can fucking _arrange_ that. 

One, two, three strokes of his throat and Dean practically feels the gigantic leaps towards orgasm number two he helps his neighbor with. He watches with strict eyes, has to slap his hand another time as it rises to pull at his hair, barks a sharp "Hands off I said, asshole! Jesus fucking Christ!" and shoves his right hand between under Mr Novak's balls. The guy whimpers and jumps and twitches all at once when he pushes his thumb down his taint, right onto his asshole. "Now, be real good, Mr Novak," he chirps, spits where his thumb is pressing down and then pushes right in without giving much of a wait to the tight muscle. Another whine and the man tries to shy away from the intrusion, so Dean just has to push in harder and dig his other four fingers into the saggy flesh on the insides of Mr Novak's thigh. "Shhh, I got you, shhh, come on now, don't pussy out on me, man." It's not his best apology or comforting speech but it'll have to do and it's more than the guy deserves anyway. Mr Novak's dick disappears into his mouth again and it's actually pretty fun to have these two sensitive things right in his control, so Dean tests how each one reacts when the other one is played with. 

He shouldn't have asked. Now it's gone, all that wonderful friction, his excitement, his boner, every-fucking-thing, just because he couldn't keep his damn mouth shut. But _of course_ the guy had had a girlfriend before, _of course_ ; the perks of being a slightly normal person and all. It had been so far away from Dean's perception of "normal" - a heterosexual relationship, that is - that it hadn't crossed his mind; even though he had thought about many many aspects of Mr Novak, to be honest. The idea of getting information on that one sensitive, wonderful part he'd been thinking about ever since but was strictly permitted to experience just had been too damn seductive - and had come too sudden. Not the best basics for a teenage brain to work in proper dimensions. 

Mr Novak clamps down on his finger and Dean thinks of Rebecca, how soft her lips had been and how good she had smelled and how he had never wanted to hurt her or do something she wouldn't want, so a kiss was as far as it got between them, besides holding hands. Her giggling in his ear when he almost innocently had brushed her thigh, maybe a hand's worth above from where her skirt ended, sends so much acid up his throat that he has to ram his thumb up to the knuckle into Mr Novak's ass to keep it down; knowing himself how strange that is but oh well, what does he care? 

The poor guy groans but he's rock-hard, so Dean won't be fooled. Maybe he's even into that pain? He knows dad does, on rare occasions at least; doesn't even let spit come near him, just wants to be fingered dry and it makes him come like a fucking fountain if Dean does it right. And Dean always does it right. 

Dean shushes again as he withdraws his thumb maybe a tad too fast for it to be pleasurable, gathers and spits again, more this time, kisses down Mr Novak's cock and balls while he presses index and middle finger against his entrance. He has to blatantly laugh into Mr Novak's pubes as he slides in to the second joint and the guy curses and moans all at the same time while trying real hard not to rip the sheets apart. "Shit man, pull yourself together, will ya!" He slaps Mr Novak's cock with his free hand and, wow, he _really_ likes that sound, even without the surprised cry his neighbor produces thanks to it. 

Somehow, he can't really stop laughing while lapping and kissing away precome from the tip; it's just too adorable how raw and urgent and feral a man can become when the right switches are flicked, especially if said switches were unknown and a taboo and nothing but dirty and wrong right up to this point for said man. Crooking his fingers does the trick - Mr Novak moans like Dean imagines a woman to sound like when being fucked real, real good. Again, he laughs, fucks his fingers because ha, damn, that guy had it coming and if he isn't gonna get off himself, he'll make it worth for the other one at least. 

Feet scramble next to his legs, search for support they won't get. Mr Novak's sweaty, white chest and belly are heaving because yes, Dean knows, he's never ever felt like this and it's probably super fun if it isn't done by someone you just _know_ isn't supposed to do it with you; someone who you aren't related to first-line by blood and bonded and stuck with because you've never learned to get security and love and self-esteem from something else than fighting evil on the good days and facing your caretakers on the bad ones. 

"Close, huh?" he groans, tries his bed-voice even though he really doesn't feel like it, but he knows it adds another notch to Mr Novak's insane-o-meter that he has a highscore to break with, "Tell you what - if you can get it up again after this, I'll let you fuck _my_ ass." 

And that's it, that's fucking it; Mr Novak lifts up from the bed like a rocket and Dean can barely catch all of his come in his mouth which at the same time is very busy with laughing. Some gets in his face and hair but he doesn't really care now, fucks his fingers in right to the knuckle and presses upwards and there is no better word for what he's doing to this body than _milking_ it. 

It takes some time until it really stops and Mr Novak is nothing more or less than a fleshy puddle in Dean's fingers. A nice view somehow; fucked out and happy and sleepy little Mr Novak. He wipes his fingers into the sheets before climbing back up on his neighbor's chest, kisses and licks at the stubbled parts of it. 

"I… uhm I… Just gimme a minute… please… Dean…" 

Dean snickers and kisses the stupid mouth. "Said we have time. I gotta be home by three, so as long as you wake up before that, I'm all yours." 

The smile he gets as reward is as honest and bright and warm as he could have wished for it to be. Dean wonders if someday he'll be able to learn to smile like that. 

"Okay," Mr Novak hums and then falls asleep in a matter of seconds beneath him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How nothing about Dean’s plan seems to work out and how he eventually returns home. (Dean’s POV (last paragraph: narrator’s POV))

Just lying like this, peaceful and safe and without a worry but the clock hitting three p.m., is almost the best part about his plan. Mr Novak put his arms around his back some time ago in his sleep and Dean let him do it, is now securely snuggled to his chest, legs loosely straddling the thin waist; actually something in between of dad's broad build and Sam's almost undernourished frame. 

He dozes on and off himself, sniffing at Mr Novak's skin here and there and inhales it deep, the musky sweat being only one of its many features. For the first time that he can remember, Dean enjoys the scent of bare skin. 

When Mr Novak comes to, Dean is almost tempted to tell him to go back to sleep. A deep rumble and a surprised sound and Mr Novak remembers where he is and what the weight on top of him is and Dean of course feels the immediate reaction to that against his butt. "Takin' that 'rise and shine' real seriously, huh?" he mutters against collarbone and is squeezed by these arms he accepted so carelessly. It doesn't feel exactly good even though this is Mr Novak and not Them and he's doing it completely different… but still. 

There's a kiss to the top of his head, and then another. He chews on his bottom lip. "What I said earlier. You still in for that?" 

A short silence, enough for Mr Novak's heart to play a whole drum solo against Dean's cheek. 

"I-if… if that's okay with you…?" 

"It is," he lies against skin, sniffles at it once more before pushing himself up on his forearms. He's a bit sleepy himself now from all the lazy lying around, so maybe his eyes aren't as sharp and warning as they should. Mr Novak's seem awake, really awake, the icy blue shimmering in the glim light the blinds generously let in. Dean sighs. "Okay. Here are the rules." 

Mr Novak looks up to him like a dog who's real eager to make his owner proud. His dick is sticking up just as neatly as that. It's almost adorable. Almost. 

"No hickies. No biting. And the shirt stays _on_." Mr Novak gives a faint nod. Dean approves of that. "And I _mean_ that, you hear me? Do anything I told you not to do and I'll cut your fucking dick off. Which ain't a joke. I won't even need a _knife_ to do it. You'd be surprised what a music disc can-" 

"Okay, I got it, I got it; please, I-I won't do any of that. I promise." 

Dean squints at him. "Alright. Well, aside from that," he rolls off the surprised author and lands flat on his back next to him, "do whatever you want. All yours." There could be more Eros in that offer but when Dean turns his head to check on his poor neighbor, said man is already all hands and mouth for him anyway, rolled to his side and fingers traveling over Dean like he's never touched another human before. 

"Okay," Mr Novak breathes and immediately kisses, hungry and wet. Dean keeps his eyes open, concentrates on the coffee-taste he's being fed with instead of the actual sensation of the kiss. Sweaty hands and fingers traveling through his hair and down his neck and chest are difficult to tolerate, especially in summer when even Sam's hand get sweaty from time to time. Dean witnesses the rise of his own pulse, panic and disgust creeping into his stomach, and desperately tries to push it away. This hadn't been the plan, no, really, no. Why did he let this happen now? He never wanted this, not like this, not on his back with the guy looming over him, no, not fucking _again_. 

Dean makes a sound he used to make when he was younger and Sam started getting at him when he had already been close to falling asleep, something that meant "oh no, leave me alone, please" but just like Sam Mr Novak hears something different, something that makes his dick even harder and his kiss even fiercer. 

His nipples are flicked and it's so close to the bruise it feels like being electrocuted. "N-no, n-not there," he mumbles against chipped but throbbing lips, surprised by how high-pitched he is speaking, loses another tiny bit of ground under his feet. 

It's staying at home ill from school or nothing in order to get some time alone. And they don't get to stay at home for a headache or some shit; no. "Luckily", Dean knows how to push Sam's buttons - two or three "I hate you"'s and there's a punch to his torso, most likely his ribs, because they hurt as fuck and Sam can dig his fingers in there while he pounds his screaming mess of a brother and make him regret what he's done. Dean had repeated his plan for today over and over and over in what his brain could come up with, and it had helped a bit. Nothing's for free, they say. 

"Oh, oh, sorry," Mr Novak whispers immediately and shoves his hand down deeper towards his stomach but of course passes his ribs on his way down and Dean yelps, presses his face into the nape of Mr Novak's neck where he is showered with panicked "what?"'s and "sorry"'s but doesn't answer them, shoves down his shorts and briefs instead. 

"Come on, just do it already, please." Bed-voice is better than almost-throwing-up-voice. Yes, certainly is. 

Again, he's kissed and then shivers at the shy tries of touches Mr Novak starts on the sharp edges of his hip bones and belly button and then his dick. But no, he doesn't like that, being confronted with how limp and useless and without the slightest bit of fun he is doing this here, so Dean pushes his hips up and Mr Novak's hand down so his fingers can dig right up his crack. Mr Novak gasps against his lips and kisses just as soft as his fingers press down. 

"Y'can go harder," Dean mutters, pulls on Mr Novak's hair, ignores the tiny raw throb that remained from last night along with the black and blue underneath his shirt, "Come on, be a man an-" One finger breaches him dry and Dean chokes a bit. His voice sounds strangled but maybe Mr Novak likes to make him feel like this, so he doesn't bother to cover it up. "That's the spirit," he praises, brows furrowed tight, mouth gaping when the finger probes deeper. 

"Do you like it like this?" 

Dean squints through his lashes, digs his one hand into the pillows and the other one into Mr Novak's neck. "What?" he breathes. 

"Do you like it, Dean? When I do it like this?" Mr Novak looks like he's losing his mind right now, all dumb and love-struck and it's so innocent it makes Dean want to punch it all out of his face. Their noses meet and suddenly Mr Novak's hand is on the back of his neck, between pillows and flesh, and Dean feels trapped in so many ways he doesn't know where to start kicking and screaming against. 

"I- I don-" _I've never been asked this question before so what the fuck do you expect me to say now?_ "J-just- Just do what you want, man, I don't care; just-" He wants to bite off his tongue. Panic ties up his chest. The bruise pulses deeply. The look on Mr Novak's face tells him he has to change directions or- "Just fuck me, please. Need your dick, Mr Novak." Needy-bitch-voice is even better than bed-voice, he figures, and humps back onto Mr Novak's finger. The man's face melts again and Dean manages a relieved smile he hopes maybe somehow looks at least the tiniest bit of sexy. "Please, make me _wet_ , Mr Novak." 

It does the trick, of course it does. Suddenly, it barely takes a few seconds between being fingered with only one digit in the worst and unexperienced way ever and then rimmed so deep and enthusiastically his cock almost decides to fill up again, but in the end doesn't, can't, with Dean's brain reminding him over and over again of how dad loves to do this for ages and ages until Dean has no feeling left in his legs because he has to hold them up the entire time. He does it now as well, which isn't of any help for him but Mr Novak seems to like him needy and slutty, so this'll do. 

Moans are played off like in a cheap porn production, at least it feels like that for Dean, but of course he knows his show is nowhere near cheap, knows even without Mr Novak practically jumping him after a few minutes and even fewer well-placed and -played "oh"'s and "mmmh"'s and "fuck"'s. Dean would laugh but he's afraid it will involuntarily turn into a sobbing feast instead. "Put it in, _please_ ," he mewls in between his own knees, cheeks red not from arousal but exertion, but Mr Novak could never tell the difference. 

The guy's shaking like a pile of leaves like Dean's some celestial epitome or some shit like that. Like a good, good boy, he gasps and whines when Mr Novak starts pushing in, holds their eye contact, rolls his hips so the tip dips deeper, clenches his muscles with intention. Tries hard and harder not to think about the fact that Mr Novak looks down on him so very in love and desperately just like Sam always does - but fails. 

This should be fun. He should be enjoying this; watching this man fall apart and throwing his morals into the trash just for him and by his command only. But he doesn't. And that fucking _hurts_. 

He drifts off a few minutes into the act, plays his role like he knows he's supposed to, like Mr Novak wants to see him, how They want to see him. Good and horny and _yes, you like that, don't you? - yes, yes I do, please, more, deeper, fuck, yes_. It's yes, always yes. Give it all, keep nothing for yourself. 

"Please come inside me, Mr Novak, p-please cream me up real good," he whines through sharp slaps, wraps his arms around half-back and -neck, pulls him in close, buries his nose in sweaty, coffee-y, book-y, Novak-y skin and hair and listens to him come undone for the third time. Three times' a charm, they say. 

Buried underneath a sweaty, loose body once again, Dean doesn't even feel the fist-thick bruise being crushed. 

* * *

Mr Novak falls back to sleep soon after it. Quietly, Dean picks up his shorts and underwear, pulls it up and leaves, doesn't look back, doesn't even visit the room with all the pretty books, doesn't run his finger over them like he had planned to. 

_It didn't work. Okay. Time to get over it, Winchester. It's okay. Next time, it'll be different. Don't cry. Don't fucking cry. You'll find a way. One fucking day, you will. Fucking. Make it._

The sun is blinding, the heat sizzling outside. A wave of sweat pours from Dean immediately and he's happy he'll have to shower very neatly anyway before doing anything else. And hand-wash these clothes, oh man, why did that stuff have to be so damn sticky, nature, huh? He feels it running down his thighs and chooses to ignore it. 

Big steps take him to his own house fast and easy. He lets himself in. Sighs when he closes the door behind him, lets his forehead rest against it for a few seconds, savors its coolness against his burning skin. Maybe he'll jump into the pool after this. Or maybe even shower on the coldest setting. Yeah. That'd be a nice thing to do, actually. 

"Dean?" 

His heart stops beating. 

"Dean, 's that you?" 

Feeling in his limbs is forgotten, but he runs, upstairs, upstairs; oh God, how had he not heard the car roll up the street?; just make it to the bathroom- 

John gets him by the ankle and he crashes down face-first. The stairs' edges are sharp and pain lights his face up like fire. Trying to break free, he tastes iron on his tongue, screams, grabs at what won't hold him, sobs and shakes in John's vice like grip once they're chest to back. 

"I decide to look after you in my lunch break and this is what I-" The growl in his father's voice is terrifying by itself but Dean knows, just knows John just now took a _real_ look at him, smells the foreign scents on him; practically hears the pieces click together in his damned, way too fast brain. "Dean. What. What in the-" 

John decides to stop talking and just breathes into Dean's neck. 

"Please," his son sobs, "Please, daddy, please, I'm sorry, please, please don't!" 

The kid doesn't know what he's begging for and neither does John. It doesn't really matter, actually, because both of them know John can't be stopped from anything he puts his mind to. 

It's one single cry from when John picks his son up over his shoulder up to when he throws him into his bedroom. 

The door clicks shut behind them with cruel calmness. 

* * *

It's a nice neighborhood. Friendly people. Many families. Quiet. Peaceful. Houses number seventeen and eighteen haven't been touched or entered for a handful of days, but the saleslady won't come check until another few. 

Two empty houses, one with still a big mortgage to pay off and the other one with yet four rents in advance. She'll miss this tenant. Always so dutiful with his payments. He even left the beautiful BMW behind, only took his boys and that old but somehow charming black car with him, some neighbors say. 

About the house owner of number seventeen, she doesn't know too much. Maybe he's visiting his family or something. He couldn't possibly have left with the Winchesters; Mrs Bigsby is very sure she'd only seen three people get in the car. 

She won't be too happy about all the blood, though. But blood-stains can be fixed - just replace the furniture and paint the walls and it's all new. At least there are no bodies. 

If she'd look real close, she'd find a chunk of a tooth on top of the stairs. But she probably won't. 

It's a nice neighborhood. Friendly people. Many families. Quiet. Peaceful. 

It had never really been their home.


End file.
